


After

by LokiOfSassgaard



Series: Sex is Boring [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOfSassgaard/pseuds/LokiOfSassgaard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is asexual. John is not. And yet, things are not so simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

John hadn’t even noticed. Early on, he seemed to have sensed that something was not right, but as events progressed he had become very focused on one goal and temporarily cast everything else aside.

A bit hard to fault him for it. Damned hypocritical, at the very least.

Still, something about the whole event made Sherlock’s skin feel too tight for his body, even under the hot spray of the shower. No matter how much he scrubbed, he still didn’t feel clean, and only stepped out to get dressed once the water had become too cold to bear.

He briefly hesitated by the door, feeling a sudden, odd apprehension at the idea of going into his own bedroom. Why? It was his space. The only thing new about it was John, still asleep and tangled in the duvet. Surely, even awake, he wouldn’t want to do that again.

Would he?

Best to be quiet, then. Getting dressed wasn’t exactly an option if Sherlock wanted to go to Bart’s. They might take exception to him showing up, wearing only a towel.

If he wanted to stay in the towel, he’d have to stay home. But he didn’t want to stay in the towel. He wanted – no, needed – to get dressed. Wear something comfortable, familiar. Clothes were good. A barrier, keeping him closed off and protected, just that small amount, from the rest of the world.

He quietly made his way over to the wardrobe, mentally cursing the state of it and the fact that Mrs Hudson hadn’t done the laundry yet. Anything clean was buried under a box he had tossed inside the wardrobe, and getting at it would have definitely woken John.

Sherlock preferred that John stay asleep. He grabbed an old pair of black denims and a reasonably clean shirt and returned to the sitting room to dress.

 

For not the first time, Sherlock found that he had severely lost track of the time, only realising how long he’d been in the lab when Molly wandered in with a cup of coffee, whic h she sat on the table next to him.

“You’re in early,” she said.

Sherlock frowned and looked down at his watch. “Not been home yet,” he said.

“Oh.”

He hated the way Molly tried to force conversation out of the air. He did what he always did, and tried to ignore it.

“Got a case on, then?” Molly asked finally.

“No,” Sherlock said, peering into a petri dish.

“Oh, did you and Dr Watson have a row?” asked Molly sympathetically. “That’s too bad.”

“What? No.” Sherlock found this conversation more annoying than usual, and he wasn’t sure why. “John and I are perfectly—”

Well. If they hadn’t had a row the night before, Sherlock realised he was in for one now. While he had no personal basis for the hypothesis, he was fairly certain that it was very not good to have sex with someone and then leave immediately after.

“I have to go.” He put the petri dish down and rushed to gather his coat and scarf, pulling both on as he left the lab.

 

The apprehension returned as he climbed the stairs up to the flat. This time, he knew exactly where it had come from. He wasn’t, after all, particularly keen on getting shouted at by John. Sometimes, it could be almost entertaining to push the man’s buttons, but when the source of John’s irritation was unintentional, it introduced a whole new and completely uncomfortable element. Still, he knew that he should tell John why he’d left. John deserved to know, didn’t he?

Except, Sherlock wasn’t quite sure he knew. Why did he leave? He knew it had mostly to do with what he and John had done together. And it had been together. He had, at first, wanted it just as badly as John. Or thought he had, at least. Everything he’d heard and read about sex had led him to believe that it was meant to be fun, enjoyable, pleasurable. It hadn’t been any of those. It was uncomfortable, at best like scrat ching an itch, and then like scratching an itch for far too long. It hadn’t actually hurt, but it was definitely in the category of unpleasant. It was supposed to have been better than masturbation, but at least masturbation in the shower had the side effect of leaving him with clean hair, as he had the habit of multi-tasking and doing both actions at once.

Was he supposed to tell John all of this? That couldn’t be right, and would certainly only make the situation worse. He couldn’t imagine anyone reacting well to being told they were rubbish in bed.

Still, skulking in the stairs wasn’t accomplishing anything, and Sherlock knew it. He could hear John moving about on the other side of the door. Packing, most likely. Would he move out after this? He didn’t have much of a reason to stick around, if he was looking for something Sherlock couldn’t provide.

Sherlock carefully pushed open the door to find John stabbing a broom under the sofa.

“ Mice,” he declared by way of a greeting. “Mice, Sherlock. We have got to clean up in here more often. Mrs Hudson’s going to have a fit.”

“Don’t kill it,” Sherlock said, jumping to stop John from crushing the creature, if he hadn’t already.

It was enough to startle John into stopping, and he gave Sherlock a puzzled look.

“I brought it home from Bart’s a few days ago,” he said, crouching down to see if he could spot the mouse under the sofa. “It’s for an experiment. Must have gotten out. It’s no good if it dies where I can’t observe it.”

“Of course,” John said. He wandered back to the kitchen to return the broom. “I’ll put the kettle on, then? Are you eating today?”

Sherlock made a vague noise in response, and John busied himself with the kettle. He wasn’t angry at all. Had he expected Sherlock to go leave afterward? He must have done.

John Watson, always full of surprises.

 

Things we re different. Totally, completely, definitely different. And Sherlock could not figure out how. John hadn’t mentioned anything about the night before, whether to indicate a desire to do it again or to say that it wouldn’t be happening again. He just went on being John, staying out of Sherlock’s way as he busied himself with experiments that he only started working on so John would stay out of his way.

John didn’t need to know this.

Sherlock wanted to keep his space. He didn’t want anybody touching him and invading that space, and knew that John would respect that, just as he always had before.

Before. Before sex. Before everything changed. What about after? Would there be an after? John seemed to think so. He hadn’t packed up and moved out, anyway. He even helped Sherlock catch the mouse, which Sherlock was staring at, but not really seeing. The mouse that had stopped breathing fully twenty minutes ago without Sherlock noticing.

Well, that was a waste of a mouse. He’d have to repeat the experiment when he wasn’t so distracted. Distracted by John.

John was never distracting like this before. This must be after. After sex, and the shift in the relationship. A relationship Sherlock had no idea what to do with. He understood relationships on a theoretical; knew why people would involve themselves with such messy, complicated affairs. Now that he was involved with one, he didn’t know what he was meant to do with it. Did he even want to be in this relationship? He wasn’t sure. He did like having someone else around, keeping him sane and out of his own self-destructive habits. He recognised that it was necessary to have someone around he could talk to, should the mood take him, and who would make sure he would think about more than just himself.

He liked thinking about John. He liked the feeling of putting John first, and making him happy.

He did not like being touched by John.

When h e felt the hand on the back of his neck, he started so hard that he nearly fell out of his seat.

“Woah. All right?” John asked, stepping back slightly. “You’ve been in your own head all day, and barely said two words to me.”

It wasn’t the first time John had been concerned about Sherlock getting lost in his own thoughts. Was this a result of After, or was this just John? Difficult to tell.

“Thinking,” Sherlock answered flatly.

“About?” John wasn’t touching him anymore, but he hadn’t moved away either.

“Last night,” Sherlock answered. “I… I’m not sure. I’d never.”

John’s eyebrows arched toward the ceiling. “You’d never had sex before?”

“Not exactly,” Sherlock answered, contemplating cleaning up the mouse. Maybe it could still be salvaged for something else.

“Well.” John rubbed his forehead. “I wish I’d have known that last night. Probably would have done things differentl y, then.”

Sherlock frowned. What did he mean? Wouldn’t have had sex at all? Wouldn’t have even bothered? John put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and rubbed a small circle with his thumb.

“Is that where you’ve been all day?” asked John. “Freaking out inside that massive head of yours?”

Damnit, why didn’t John play by the rules?

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted.

John actually laughed. Not a malicious laugh, but a soft, almost appreciative laugh. “Right,” he said easily. “I didn’t think about that. Didn’t even realise it was a possibility.” He took his hand away. “Sorry if I… sort of spooked you, then. Do you want me to leave for the night? I can stay somewhere else, if you want to… I don’t know. Whatever it is you do.”

Did John understand? Was it normal to react badly after the first time? Something everyone did? Sherlock did have to admit that most of the addictions he’d formed were to something th at had made him physically ill the first time he’d tried it. Was sex the same way? Something to which the body grew accustomed until it eventually craved it?

He’d have to research that.

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said. “Stay. I think… I think I might have a nap, actually. I didn’t sleep last night.”

He got up to go change into his pyjamas.

“What do you want me to do with this?” John called after him, pointing at the dead mouse.

“Fridge,” Sherlock answered.

 

He’d barely slept for an hour before waking up to the sound of one of John’s quiz shows. It was the one that didn’t make any sense as a quiz show, as the host only got round to asking maybe three or four questions over the span of the episode.

The host was going on about honeybees; nothing Sherlock didn’t already know. He barely paid any attention, focusing instead on the way John lightly ran his fingers over his instep, just as he always d id when Sherlock would nap on the sofa. This had become normal for them, long Before, and he was pleased to find that it was one aspect of their relationship that hadn’t changed.

“And what’s interesting – dunno who did this – if you give them cocaine, they exaggerate.”

Sherlock perked slightly, not entirely sure he’d heard what he thought he had. The host, whatever his name was, was still talking about honeybees, but had moved to a slightly different topic.

“They claim there’s more honey than there is. They overdo it. They get boastful, essentially.”

Forgetting all about John, Sherlock shifted to reach for his phone on the coffee table, but John was at a better angle and not slowed down by recent sleep and snatched it up first.

“Don’t you even dare,” he warned calmly, slipping the phone into his pocket.

Sherlock glared at him, knowing that if he wanted to experiment with honeybees and anything, it wa s just a matter of a few text messages to get everything he’d need. But John seemed angry just at the prospect. John the Flatmate would interpret Sherlock’s doing so as irresponsible, no doubt. But what about this new John? John the whatever sex had made him become? Boyfriend? Partner? Either way, he was likely to mark it as some sort of betrayal. Now that they had paired off, Sherlock would be expected to do certain things for John. Not just sexual thing, but emotional as well. Things like not deliberately violating his trust.

Perhaps being single was easier.

“John,” Sherlock ventured. He found himself unsure how to follow that, so he just left it there.

John looked over at him, his hand moving slightly toward the pocket where he’d hidden Sherlock’s phone. “Does this have anything to do with Class A substances?” he asked.

Apparently, he was on the same page as Sherlock when it came to trust.

“No. Last night.” John could keep his phone. Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to experiment with bees, anyway. Maybe later.

John watched him, waiting patiently for Sherlock to say what he had been thinking since the night before. He didn’t want to push or rush him into anything, plainly. Sherlock wondered if he felt guilty about the night before.

“I don’t know if it’s something I’d want to do again,” Sherlock said after a moment. “It wasn’t…”

Wasn’t what? He didn’t know.

John licked his lips. “When you said that you hadn’t been with anyone?” he asked. “Did you mean anyone at all, or another bloke?”

“Anyone at all,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps it gets better over time. I don’t know. But I didn’t find it enjoyable and don’t think it’s worth repeating.”

He watched John, trying to read his reactions. Disappointment. Hurt. Confusion. All expected and all present.

“Did you want to?” he asked. “Last night?”

Guilt.

Sherlock shrugged. “At the time, I thought I had. As events progressed, I wasn’t sure how to stop it. Didn’t know if I was supposed to; how you might have reacted if I did.”

“So, you didn’t?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said honestly. John looked away, and Sherlock realised that he had said the wrong thing. “We’re two consenting adults who knew what we were getting into.”

“I don’t think you did,” John said. “Are you aware of informed consent, Sherlock? It’s one thing to say yes to something if you know what’s going on. But if you agree to do something without having all of the information, it’s not really consenting.”

“You didn’t force yourself on me,” Sherlock said, putting a bit more bite into the words than he’d meant to. “I knew what I was doing. I just don’t want to do it again.”

John studied him for a long while, chewing lightly on his lip. “Great. Fine,” he said. “What do you want to do, then?”

Sherlock turned his attention back to John’s quiz show. Boring.

“Go back to sleep,” he said, stretching out and sliding his feet under John’s hands.

After a few moments of silence between them, John’s thumb began tracing patterns on Sherlock’s instep again, eventually pulling Sherlock back into a light sleep.


End file.
